A Light in the Darkness
by ThatGreysGirl
Summary: The story of Kurt Hummel; a boy who has been broken and beaten down by the hardships of life. Can a group of boys, and one Blaine Anderson, help Kurt to see a future? Or has the past already done too much damage to this beautiful boy? Blind!Kurt - AU - Klaine with lots of Warbler-ness going on!
1. Prologue

_**A/N; Hi guys! So this is my first fanfiction that I'm writing. I've loved reading the stuff for a few years now, but I got this idea and wanted to see what you all thought. Any constructive criticism would be appreciated cause I'm new to this - would love to see what you all think, good and bad!**_

_**Also, I'm British, so apologies for any British spellings/phrases/expressions that may creep in here. I've tried to keep it americanised, but let me know if there's anything I've said that doesn't make sense!**_

_**This chapter's just a prologue, it's taking you through some snapshots of Kurt's life up until the point where the actual story is going to start. Each line break indicates a time jump.**_

**_This will be AU, but with certain elements of canon brought in. And it will have much happier moments; this won't be a purely angsty story, although it'll have its moments!_**

**_Warnings (for whole story): violence, bullying, language, homophobia, assault._**

**_Disclaimer: As much as I wish I did, I own nothing but the plot._**

* * *

Kurt Hummel doesn't like darkness.

He never has; as far as his mind can stretch back, it's been associated with the worst moments of his life.

* * *

Eight years old, he's sitting in the front of the car with his legs drawn up underneath him, trying to suppress a yawn because he's a big boy now and big boys don't get tired; his father's gaze penetrating the night sky and his knuckles turning white as they cling to the steering wheel as though it's the only thing keeping him attached to this world. Neither move for a long time; Kurt's not quite sure how long, he's still getting the hang of telling the time and hasn't _quite_ wrapped his head around how the two little hands which look like spiders' legs crawling around in a circle can measure how long it takes him to drive to school, or to eat his lunch. He knows it's been longer than when mommy drives him to school, and they sing along to different songs on her favourite CDs, getting through three of them in the time it takes to pull into the parking lot - although mommy hasn't been around to do that very much lately. He knows it _hasn't_ been as long as when daddy had to go stay with mommy at the hospital, his voice shaky over the phone as he told Kurt "it'll be alright, bud, she'll be just fine." and Kurt had had to stay round at Rachel Berry's for the night. His dad had been right; she _had_ been fine.

The fluorescent sign looming over Lima Memorial Hospital, the only thing penetrating the cloak of darkness shrouding the parking lot, seems too bright; clouds hide the stars and the moon that his mommy finds so pretty. Kurt remembers her telling him, that if he ever needed her, just to look at the stars and know that she's there, and Kurt remembers finding that silly because he could just go downstairs and find her, breathing in the musky scent of her perfume and settling into the safety of her arms. Now though, he wishes he could see the stars, because mommy's not here and daddy's acting weird and he doesn't know why; mommy's inside that building, Kurt knows she's there, with the nice nurses who give him sweeties and warm milk while he colors pictures for his mom.

But there are no stars to be seen tonight. Just darkness. And that sign.

Eventually his daddy's voice cuts through the silence; not the nice kind of silence that Kurt's used to, where they all cuddle up and watch one of those movies his mom loves, with the people who sing and dance, the movies that daddy _claims_ he doesn't like but never refuses to watch, knowing it makes his family happy. His voice is thick, strangled and foreign, in a way that Kurt hadn't heard since mommy and daddy sat him down and told him that mommy was very sick; it takes Kurt a moment to recognise the voice.

"She's gone, kiddo. Your mom, she," his hands clasp the steering wheel impossibly tighter, not looking at his son in the passenger seat, eyes piercing the darkness as though searching for something "She's not hurting anymore, bud. But from now on it's you and me, okay?"

Kurt isn't sure he understands; his mom said that she'd _always_ be there, in the stars. But now the stars are gone, and it's dark, really _really_ dark. And the only light is coming from the place which, as far as Kurt's concerned, just took away his mommy.

They drive home in the dark, and daddy forgets to leave Kurt's night-light on; the pink sparkly one that mommy bought him for Christmas, that daddy had rolled his eyes at but fought back a smile when he saw how happy it made his boy.

Kurt falls asleep in the darkness, and when he wakes up after a bad dream doesn't run to his daddy, because he can hear his daddy crying too.

* * *

People in the house; more people than normal, than ever before. They all keep looking at him with pity in their eyes, and it makes Kurt uncomfortable; why are they all here, anyway? Daddy says they're here to say goodbye to mommy, but after that night a couple of weeks ago the stars have been out again (Kurt's made _sure_ to stay up late enough to check every night) and so his mommy's still here, isn't she? Just like she promised.

Kurt wishes she'd hurry up and come home though; everyone's wearing black, even him (daddy had dressed him in a suit this morning, and when he saw the sadness in his father's eyes Kurt didn't want to kick up a fuss), and mommy hates black. She likes bright things, and clothes that show people who you are; that's why she let Kurt wear pink when he wanted to, and play dress up, even though daddy didn't like it that much.

If this party's for mommy, surely they should wear clothes that she would have liked?

Daddy's talking to Granny Ellen, his lips pressed into a thin line. Daddy looks a lot older; for all he usually nags at Kurt to get enough sleep, he looks like he hasn't slept in days. There are shadows under his eyes, dark and purple in half-moon shapes, standing out against his skin, which looks a lot paler than normal.

Kurt wonders when mommy's going to come home, so they can turn out the lights and hide behind the sofa and jump out and yell "Surprise!" like they did last year on her birthday. Even if daddy's made everyone wear stupid black clothes, which she's going to hate, she'll get that smile on her face, and she'll look at him and daddy as if she's looking at the sun, and the brightness in her eyes will wash away all the darkness, all the sadness, that's seeping its way into every corner of the room.

None of them have smiled a lot lately. Mommy can change that.

He goes and asks daddy when mommy's coming back, so they can surprise her. She wasn't there earlier, when they went to a church and sang songs (though not the fun kind that he and mommy sing in the car) and talked about what a wonderful woman she was. Kurt can't help but wonder why they said _**was**_, and not _**is**_; were they all like those boys Finn, Azimo and Karovsky in his grade, who never listened to the teacher and always got into trouble for talking to much? Is that why they were talking wrong?

When Kurt asks, daddy starts to cry, and Kurt's _never_ seen his daddy cry (although he's heard it a lot in the past two weeks). The creases by his daddy's eyes are gone, the ones that get deeper when he laughs at something mommy does, or when Kurt sings him a song or sits and watches him at the shop (because he's not big enough to help yet, even if he _is_ a big boy now). The sparkle in his eyes, which always seem to make them dance and appear impossibly brighter, has been extinguished. They seem empty, full of almost palpable sorrow.

The light seems to be disappearing from everything right now. And Kurt thinks mommy may be the only one who can bring it back.

* * *

Words written all over his new satchel, on the second day of middle school; thick, black marker scrawled messily against the brown leather bag that Kurt knew his dad couldn't really afford, but had bought anyway because he saw how much his son had loved it. Kurt doesn't know what the words mean, but he knows they won't be pleasant; those Neanderthals must have done it, the ones who walk around like they own the place even though they only seem to have one outfit - poor fitting jeans and a letterman jacket (but seriously? _Where_ is their _fashion sense?_).

Kurt tries to hide the bag from his dad when he goes to help him at the shop that night; he'll be angry with Kurt for being careless with his stuff, and he paid a lot for that satchel.

His dad sees it anyway, when he's in his office, using an old rag to wipe the traces of oil and grease, thick and viscous , from his hands. His eyes darken with anger and resignation as he scans the black scrawl, effectively branding his son.

**_Fag. Homo. Lady. Freak_**.

* * *

Bruises scattered across his body; a convoluted myriad of blues, purples and yellows that intermingle and intertwine in a way that not even the most skilled of painters could replicate, the result of daily run-ins with dumpsters, lockers, fists and the floor.

The marks stand out against his pale skin, and it hurts too much to sit back on his chair. He feels dirty, tainted, like he deserves _every single one._

But he can't let them see that; he can't show weakness. He can't make his dad worry.

He won't change for them.

Even though the light in his enigmatic eyes is fading fast.

* * *

Coming home to a dark, empty house night after night; everyone knows what happened, but nobody cares enough to wonder what happens to the gay kid who's dad's in a coma, when he leaves the hospital every night.

Every light in the house is on; he doesn't dare switch them off, because his dad never remembers to. A football game on the TV; because his dad would ignore any pleas to turn it off and let him watch "Rent" instead.

But the darkness doesn't disappear. Left with his own thoughts, running on a loop of "_what if's_" and "_my fault's_" and "_could-have-should-have-would-have's_", Kurt's never felt more alone.

* * *

Dark clothes. Any others are too much of a risk now; he's come to resent them anyway. They're too much of a beacon, screaming to the world what he is; _worthless fairy faggot freak_. They don't stop the torture; the locker shoves and dumpster tosses, the punches to the gut (never to the face - always where nobody would see) come as often as ever, but they allowed him to slip through the crowds inconspicuously at times.

Kurt Hummel; unseen and unheard - fading into the background.

Who'd have thought it?

* * *

Nightmares. Waking up screaming, chest heaving, skin crawling, the darkness consuming him. Reminding him of _that_ place, _those_ people. Sleeping with the lights on.

Kurt Hummel can't remember the last time he slept through the night.

* * *

Skin becoming paler and paler; purple shadows under his listless the clear signs of sleep-depravation that nobody has noticed.

Burt asks, but he doesn't push.

Nobody else looks hard enough to see.

* * *

Hands on him. On his clothes. On his skin. Everywhere. It's dark. He shouldn't have taken the back route out of school, he _knew_ he shouldn't have.

A face looming over his, obscured by the lack of light. A potent mix of anger, lust and something Kurt can't quite name betrayed on his face.

So many punches.

A bottle.

And then nothing.

* * *

Pain. Everywhere.

Radiating from every inch of his body, as if he's been pulled limb from limb by some sort of rabid animal, then run over twenty times by a truck; he can't remember enough, or focus enough, to rule that out.

Voices - he can't place them, but he knows that he knows them.

Eyes open, eyelids forced upwards, groggy and slow.

Still he sees nothing but darkness.

And **_His_** face, that never leaves his mind.

* * *

Kurt Hummel doesn't like darkness; he never has, and doesn't think he ever will.

But now he has to get used to it.

* * *

**_A/N - Chapter 1 will start quite soon after this point. I'm purposely not going into detail about things; all will be revealed later on! _**

**_Please let me know what you think - good or bad! If I don't hear from people I'll probably end up having a crisis of confidence and abandoning this, so if you have thoughts let me know! Because I like the ideas I have for this fic._**

**_Hope you guys are having a nice day, wherever you are and whatever you're doing._**

**_Pip :)_**


	2. Such was normal life at Dalton

**_A/N - Hello again lovely people! Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed/followed/favourited this story since I posted it last night. It means a lot that you guys liked it enough to read it - I honestly expected that nobody would!_**

**_So in this chapter we're checking in at Dalton with Blaine and the Warbler's - No Kurt in this chapter but he'll be back in the next one, I think! We're also introduced to my main two OCs, who are both going to have pretty big roles - one of them from the start, and one a bit later on. _**

**_In this chapter, there's a quote from one of my favourite books - if you can name the book, and find the quote, you get to name the final OC that I'm having in this story :)_**

**_Warnings from first chapter still apply!_**

**_Disclaimer - Still don't own Glee :(_**

* * *

"You'll pay for that, David!"

Blaine Anderson watched on, lips quirking into a small half-smile at his best friend's antics; Wes and David chased one another around the common room, the former wielding his gavel threateningly above his head (although Blaine seemed to recall a warning from the principal, which went along the lines of "_You hit anyone again with that gavel, Wesley, and I'll have to suspend you,_") while the latter attempted to evade capture by hiding behind a leather sofa.

This was normality at Dalton; all the seriousness, the business-like professionalism of Warbler rehearsals - which, if Blaine was being honest, was necessary to get _anything_ done around here - dissipated the second practice ends.

Except for when competitions are approaching; then, Wes had been known to get a _little_ scary. But that's besides the point.

Glancing around, Blaine couldn't shake the feeling that this was _home_, in a more pure and honest way than the house where he'd spent the first fourteen years of his life, but where he never truly fit. These boys were his brothers; his family. He recalled last month, when, after a few drinks at a Warbler's party, a Sophmore Warbler, Jake, had summed up this feeling perfectly;

_"It's like we're a massive jigsaw puzzle. On our own we're all different shapes and sizes and colors, and when you look at us all individually you can't imagine how we'd all possibly fit together; we're just too different. But then one of us connects with another, and they connect with someone else, and sooner or later we're all linked together and we've created this massive picture that's just...awesome."_

Granted, that whole speech had been rather slurred (Jake wasn't exactly known for his alcohol tolerance, and a couple of beers tended to turn him incredibly philosophical) and the other Warbler's had had to ask him to repeat certain parts so that they could understand, but the image made sense in his mind.

If you'd told him eighteen months before that he'd feel so at home, so accepted, so _comfortable_ here, he'd have laughed in your face. But now, as he surreptitiously extends a foot into David's path, sending his friend tumbling to the hardwood floor with a thud before Wes dives on top of him and begins to tickle him mercilessly, Blaine's stomach ached from laughter and he knew that he was _happy_. Not _pretending-to-be-happy-so-nobody-asks-whats-wrong_, like the first six months here. Not _better-than-before-but-not-great._

_Happy_.

He wasn't even sure when it happened. It wasn't like he woke up one day and all was right with the world; he was in the middle before he knew he had begun. It wasn't the kind of fleeting, giddy happiness that washes over you when something amazing happens - the kind where you can't stop grinning and your feet can't keep still and you just want to shout this amazing news from the rooftops. Granted, he got those moments sometimes; the first time he got a solo in Warbler's, the first time he got an A in Chemistry (after a _lot_ of tutoring from Wes).

But this happiness, it wasn't like that. It's more like, _contentment_.

It was when he couldn't wrap his head around a question in Chemistry, but he could go and knock on Wes' door without a second thought, knowing that the Senior would be there to help him.

It was singing along with Jeff and Nick to cheesy pop songs in the car, not caring that they were completely out of key and probably not doing their voices any good.

It was walking down the corridor to English, and not being on constant alert, eyes scanning the halls for anything, _anyone_ that might be a threat to him.

It was when he's had a sleepless night, his dreams plagued by faces and names he wished to forget, and one text to David would bring the older boy to his door, wordlessly accepting that Blaine just needs to be _held_ right now.

It was a hand on a shoulder, a smile across the room, a casual suggestion of a movie night, which pushed away the darkness as it began to resurface.

It was knowing that they knew - Wes, David and Dan knew everything, but all the Warbler's knew some of what happened - and they didn't care. They didn't judge, or pity. They're just there, with assurances of "_Whenever, whatever, wherever. You're one of us now, and we protect our own"._

It was sitting here in the common room, on a Friday night, watching David and Wes wrestle at his feet, watching Jeff and Nick laughing at a video they found online - knowing that here, amongst strangers, he'd found brothers. He found a place where he fits; where he belongs.

It was singing to happy songs, with his best friends, and relating to them instead of the sombre ballads he identified with last year.

It's being a part of this massive, crazy jigsaw that he calls his family.

And if _that_ can't make someone happy, nothing can.

* * *

There was a knock on the door. Three sharp taps, and four heads swung towards the direction of the intrusion, groaning audibly.

Hagrid was frozen mid-sentence, mouth hanging open comically and making the boys chuckle from their position entangled on Wes' bed; they _should_ have been doing homework, but had decided that a Saturday morning Harry Potter marathon would be a _much_ better idea.

"Wes, you get it, you're closest and you can probably wave your gavel around a bit and make them go away." smirked David, unwilling to leave his position cocooned in blankets.

"Nope," a shake of the head caused the Asian senior's hair, as of yet unstyled, to fall into his eyes, and he pushes it back lazily, "I'm perfectly fine here thank you very much. As Head Coucillor of the Warbler's, I nominate Warbler Blaine to go and see who's there." as he said this, he put on his "Councillor voice" - authoritative and responsible, a far cry from his personality outside of the choir room - and turned towards the mop of untamed curls sat next to him.

"No Wes - you can intimidate Freshmen, but I've seen you dancing round your dorm to Spice Girls, so your "Big, scary councillor" voice is lost on me. Plus, I'm in my pyjamas and my hair's a mess; I doubt _anyone_ wants to see that."

"We have to put up with it, why shouldn't whoever's out there?" at that, a pillow sailed through the air, smacking Dan in the face with a muted _thud._

Wes slapped his friend on the arm, pouting, while the other boys broke out into fits of giggles at the memory of their revered Leader singing "Wannabe" by the iconic girlband, dressed only in his underwear.

"That was once, guys - **_once_**! And now you're going to hold it against me forever. You shouldn't have just come in without knocking! This is harassment and bullying, I could go to Mr. Jarvis and have you all suspended," the boys all continued to snicker at their friend's indignant tone, and the irony that he had almost got suspended himself for hitting Nick with his gavel - not that Nick hadn't deserved it, "and anyway, what's wrong with Spice Girls?"

Amidst the playful bickering of four teenage boys, the knock on the door was all but forgotten, until it sounded again - more urgent this time - silencing the group.

"Fine, I'll get it, since you lot appear to have forgotten how to use your legs," grumbled Dan, running a hand through his dirty-blond hair as he swung his legs laboriously off the bed and hoisted himself up, swinging open the door with a flourish to reveal a wide-eyed Freshman.

"Hi guys, I- I'm sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Jarvis wants to talk to Dan and Blaine right now and Nick and Jeff said you'd be in here and I -" Dan's hand on his shoulder silenced the stuttering kid, although the distinct flinch at the contact wasn't lost on any of the older boys, who were observing the exchange from Wes' bed.

A crease formed between Dan's eyebrows, eyes filling with understanding; there was no shortage of emergency transfers at Dalton, most of which were for reasons relating to the zero-tolerance no-harassment policy - he hoped that this kid has the right kind of support around him, as himself and Blaine had, to find his feet here.

"It's fine, Aiden, don't worry about it; Blaine and I will go now. Come on Anderson, up!" Blaine's reluctance to move was short-lived as he's shoved unceremoniously from the bed by a snickering David.

"At least we'll have more space now; and more popcorn, you've been hogging all of it, Dan. I don't understand how you still look like that," David waved a hand - the one that isn't completely submerged in popcorn - towards the blond's toned body, "when you eat like you've been starved for a month!"

"It's called exercise, boys, you know where you actually move? That thing we never do in Warblers? You should try it sometime."

That comment was less than well-received by his two-friends, and Dan was pelted relentlessly with popcorn (catching as much as possible and shoving it in his mouth just to prove a point to the two older boys), until Blaine emerged from the bathroom - now dressed, although his hair remained unruly around his face - and with a roll of the eyes at Wes and David's childish antics, the two left the room.

* * *

Dan felt comfortable at Dalton; the breathtaking buildings and exquisite decor appeared austere, cold and unwelcoming to some, but that effect was reversed as soon as you came into contact with the students. Dan sometimes marvelled that the magnificent buildings have remained intact, with the amount of "_accidents_" and "_pranks-gone-wrong_" that occurred in any given week.

He could be himself here; he could laugh, and joke, and be silly with his friends, without being judged for it. Dalton had given him a space to figure out who he was, and then the facilities to become the best possible version of that person.

* * *

Eventually, the two boys reached the Principal's suite, both with minds pondering why Mr. Jarvis would ask to see them on a weekend; Blaine almost certain that he hadn't done anything wrong, and Dan almost certain that he's done nothing that the Principal could have _found out_ about - hopefully, anyway.

"Boys!" the student's head snapped towards the door of the comfortable, yet beautifully decorated, office, "Come in and sit down for a minute.".

Waving an arm towards the leather sofa, Mr. Jarvis' pen continued to fly over a stack of papers on his desk; middle-aged, and dressed invariably in a suit, although that's the most formal thing about him. For a school with a reputation as strict, with formal traditions and well-enforced rules, there could not be a more relaxed Principal; in the habit of bringing doughnuts to the Warbler's, and striking up casual conversations in hallways which extend beyond the topic of school, he was able to relate to his students in a way that many teachers never try to, making him a firm favourite at Dalton.

Pausing, he chewed his lip thoughtfully, before pushing the forms aside and looking at the boys.

"Been keeping an eye on Mr. Montgomery, I hope, gentlemen?", the crinkles in his face, creased like a well-used roadmap, deepened as his eyebrows raised comically towards his receding hairline, and the two boys chuckled, perfectly relaxed in the presence of this man.

"Yes sir, we're doing our best." confirmed Blaine, thankful that word of last night's antics in the common room hadn't made its way back here.

The Principal nodded, smiling, before turning suddenly more serious; his eyebrows drew together and he appeared to be wracking his brains for the right way to phrase something - unusual for the teacher with a tendency to say what he thinks, consequences be damned.

"I called you both here today," he made eye contact with both boys,drawing out the words and seemingly deep in thought, "because there will be a new boy arriving here tomorrow. You two will have more contact with him than anybody, so I felt I should warn you."

Both boys were shocked by this; whilst mid-semester transfers were far from unheard of at Dalton, they are never executed without some form of extenuating circumstances - there had to be a reason that there would be a new boy, a month into the semester, and they were being "_warned_" about him. Blaine, curiosity overcoming him, voiced the queries which have entered the minds of both, causing Mr. Jarvis to sigh quietly.

"His situation - it's not my place to explain it to you - is a lot like yours, Blaine," the smaller boy's eyes closed at this, grimacing - he knew what _that_ meant, and he wished that it wasn't the case; nobody deserved to go through that, "I need you to keep an eye on him, but he's going to be closed off at first; distant. You're responsible, compassionate, and trustworthy, Mr. Anderson - I'm proud of how far you've come, and now I'm asking you to help someone else, as Wes and David helped you. Can you do that?" Blaine nodded violently, a lump in his throat the size of a tennis ball barring any words from escaping.

"If I may, sir?" Dan's voice cut through the silence, which had been speaking louder than any words until that moment, "I understand why Blaine's here, of course, but why am I?"

"This new boy - Kurt Hummel; he's a lot like you too, Daniel; he'll be able to relate to you in a lot of ways." the boy nods curtly, unsure of what Jarvis means but willing to accept this until he could speak to the boy and learn more. "Also, you're the only Junior as of now without a roommate; despite your distinct lack of tact, at times," green eyes rolled at this, his reputation for having no brain-to-mouth filter preceding him, "I think you can handle the responsibility. The boy - Kurt - is blind" the man's eyes seemed to darken at this, teeth biting into his lip in a way which indicated that there was a story behind that comment, "so I need both of you on best behaviour. Understood?"

Both boys nodded, silence all that was necessary - to be warned about a transfer, to have two boys explicitly directed to _watch out for him_, was a more than sufficient indicator of the gravity of the situation.

Dan, sat on the edge of the sofa closest to the window, allowed his eyes to travel to the gardens, where groups of boys are scattered, enjoying their day; Autumn was approaching, putting more of a biting chill into the weather. His eyes lingered on a group of Freshmen, passing a soccer ball between themselves and using their Dalton sweaters as goalposts (better hope the Principal didn't see that; as relaxed as he can be, he struck the fear of God into the hearts of those who fail to follow School Regulations). Nearby, a boy sat, back pushed against the thick trunk of an oak tree; he recognised him as the flinching boy from earlier, Aiden - the one who had fetched them to go and see the Principal. The boy's eyes were filled with longing, eyes following the ball as though he was itching to jump up and join in, and suddenly, the others were at his side - the ones who'd been playing - pulling him to his feet and thrusting the ball into his hands.

Dan wasn't close enough to see the look on the Freshman's face, but he didn't need to; he'd seen it enough times, in many different forms, since enrolling here, to be able to imagine it effortlessly. He'd seen it in Blaine, the day he'd told Dan, Wes and David everything, and the boys had cried with him and held him and reassured him. He hadn't seen it on himself, but he could pinpoint the moment it appeared; when he'd been singing **_that_** song in his room - the one that used to summarise everything he'd felt but now seemed to belong to another boy - and Jeff had walked in, pulling him into a suffocating embrace, before pulling back and looking into his eyes, saying "_I don't know why you're singing that song, and singing it like you relate to every word; I don't know and I won't ask. But I know pain when I hear it, and you're not alone here."_

It was the look of realisation that Dalton was _different_. The look look of "_maybe all the others **were** wrong"_, and "_maybe it **will** get better"_, and "_maybe I'm not alone here_". A look of hope - fleeting, at first, but stronger with time - for something stronger, something better. It was a glint in the eyes, a flash of light, like someone had turned the power back on after days of endless, senseless darkness.

Dalton was a safe haven for so many, and he'd be damned if they didn't help Kurt to realise it too.

_No matter how long it took._

Next to him, Blaine's thoughts almost exactly mirrored his friend's.

* * *

After what felt like hours, but in reality had been just a few short minutes, the two boys rose to their feet, mumbles of "Thank you, sir" - because no matter how much the Principal liked you, he was to be called "sir" _no matter what_ - tumbling from their lips, alongside promises to return at 10am sharp the following morning, to greet the new arrival. Dan was commanded to "_For the love of God do something about your room, Jenkerson, it can't be a bombsite when Mr. Hummel arrives_" and the boys shuffled towards the door.

"Oh, and Mr. Anderson?" a smirk was evident in the Principal's voice as Blaine paused in the doorway - Blaine could identify it even before he turned around.

"Yes sir?" thick eyebrows raised, wondering what more Mr. Jarvis could have to say.

"Nice hair", he chuckled, nodding towards the shorter boy's unruly locks, which never usually saw the light of day, before dismissing them with a smile.

And with that, the two boys made their way back to their friends - both deep in thoughts of one Kurt Hummel - to discover David pinned to the floor, Nick, Jeff and Wes tickling him mercilessly as he squirmed against the carpet. The three boys' only defence of the torture of their friend, was that "_he was hogging the popcorn"._

Such was normal life at Dalton.

* * *

**_A/N 2 - So guys, once again let me know what you think - good or bad, I want to hear all of it! There probably won't be a chapter tomorrow because it's only half-done and I want to edit bits, so see you guys in a few days!_**

**_Enjoy your weekends :) _**


	3. Try

**_A/N - Hi guys! So here we go with chapter two! I just want to say thank you to all of you who've reviewed, followed, and favourited this so far; it makes me so happy when I see someone has, that someone likes it enough to read it!_**

**_I fully intended to start with Klaine getting to know eachother in this chapter, but then Burt Hummel (who wasn't even meant to be in this chapter that much) decided to disagree with me; he started talking and then wouldn't stop. So we have this, and I promise there'll be Klaine in the next chapter._**

**_POV jumps around a bit in this; it goes Kurt, Burt, Blaine, then switches back and forth between Kurt and Burt for the rest of the chapter - I think it's pretty clear but let me know if it's not!_**

**_italics - what people are thinking :)_**

**_Let me know what you think, guys!_**

**_Disclaimer - still not mine :(_**

* * *

The calloused hand, uncharacteristically gentle, in the small of his back was the only thing keeping him grounded right now, as Burt eased him forward through the parking lot.

_Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. You're fine. Nothing will happen._

Who was he kidding?

He could feel the panic, the fear, clawing its way along his skin, leaving goosebumps and tremors in its wake. The breathing exercises given to him by the hospital weren't working, his heart hammering against his chest so hard that he was sure it would fracture the ribs that had only just begun to heal up, and he couldn't get his breath.

"Kurt, listen to me kiddo," the gruff, gravelly voice punctured the balloon of panic that had been swelling up inside of him, deflating it slightly and allowing Kurt to take a gasping breath of air to silence his screaming lungs, "You're safe here, okay? Security's tight round here, I made sure. This'll be good for you, bud - you can't keep hiding from it." his father's voice was strained, tired; Kurt felt the familiar bubble of guilt, deep in his stomach, that _he_ had been the one to put that strain there.

He was a burden to everyone; even his own father. Not that Burt would ever admit that.

* * *

He scanned the place with his eyes as they walked, seeking out anything that could be a threat to his son.

He had to protect him now - he'd failed Kurt one time too many.

He kept his hand on Kurt's back, as much for himself as for his son; Kurt was _here_, he was _safe_. If Burt could physically feel him, there was no chance he'd lose him like he lost Elizabeth.

His throat thickened when he realised he may have lost him already. Gone were the extravagant, loud clothes Kurt was always spending far too much money on; the coiffed hair that needed more hairspray than Burt knew what to do with, replaced by limp, brown locks across his forehead.

Gone was the spark in the glasz eyes, that always made it seem like Kurt was up to no good - most of the time, that had been an accurate assumption - and the melodic laugh; eyes shielded by sunglasses, unseeing and empty, lacked the light that Burt was so used to.

He wracked his brains to remember the last time he'd had to holler to Kurt to _stop with the singing for just one minute so that he could hear himself think_, even before the incident - he didn't know, he just knew it had been too long.

He just hoped to a God that he didn't believe in any more, that this place could save his son.

* * *

The Dining Room at Bidwell House was almost deserted this early on a Sunday morning; long oak tables laid unoccupied, the hall eerily devoid of raucous laughter and idle chatter that was usually a constant there. Most residents had gone home for the weekend, and the few who had elected to stay were making the most of the chance to lie in for as long as possible.

Blaine was awake though, mind filled to bursting with thoughts of Kurt - who he hadn't even met yet - and how he could help him. He knew it would be a delicate situation, to say the least; he was an idealist, but not delusional. He'd have liked to think he'd ride in like some sort of White Knight, saving this boy within moments, but he knew in his heart that that wouldn't be the case. It hadn't been the case when Wes and David had been enlisted to help him adjust to Dalton - it had taken them months to get through to him, and far longer for him to truly begin to heal. For him to believe he wasn't as broken as everyone else had told him.

From what Mr. Jarvis shared with himself and Dan the day before, Kurt's situation was just as difficult - perhaps even more so.

Grabbing cereal and a banana from the breakfast table, laden with food to satiate the endless appetites of teenage boys - he'd come back for some juice later since he couldn't carry it right now - he turned on his heel, heading to one of the deserted tables, only to come face to face with Dan, far too excitable for 8am on a Sunday, clutching coffee in a vice grip.

"Dan, who on _earth_ decided it would be a good idea to give you coffee?" he groaned - while he _should_, if he thought about it, be thankful that his friend was even _awake_ on time, the mere thought of Dan (who had excitable tendencies at the best of times) and caffeine sent an involuntary shudder down his spine - that didn't bode well.

"Well I woke up and I realised we were meeting the new kid today - what's his name again? Oh yeah, Kurt - so I figured I should have lots of energy to be able to show him around and stuff and I -" Blaine snorted involuntarily, laughter bubbling past his lips as his friend rambled at speed, earning himself an indignant glare, " - _what_?"

"If you're still this hyped in two hours, Danny, I'm going to have to physically restrain you; you'll scare him away before he's even started class!"

"Oh yeah, Anderson, cause I'm just _that_ threatening aren't I?" the blond attempted to contort his face in a way that Blaine assumed was meant to be scary, but came off more constipated.

"Of course, scarily abnormal - but scary nonetheless. Seriously though," suddenly the lightheartedness drained from the room, and Blaine drummed his fingers of his right hand against the table whilst Dan appeared to be trying to memorise the logo on his coffee cup, "Jarvis said he's like we were - that he'll relate to us. Do you think that means he's -"

"There's no point speculating, Blaine. There's clearly a reason we have to look out for him, and I'm inclined to think it's something more than the fact that he's blind. But it won't do any good for us to keep guessing, before we've even met him."

Blaine leaned against the table slightly, nodding in agreement; he _really_ needed to stop being stunned at Dan's insightfulness. Sure, he tended to speak before he thought, and he hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that he was scarily abnormal, but beneath the comical exterior lay one of the kindest souls that Blaine had ever met; someone who was willing to do anything for people he cared about.

Blaine was lucky, he knew, to have found friends like this.

* * *

His ears were being assaulted; overly sensitive in the absence of his sight. Snippets of conversations between boys, talking and joking and _laughing_ - the sound almost sounded foreign to his ears. Different tones and voices and yells and exclamations, intermingling and soaring over one another in a cacophony of sound, so incessant that Kurt was almost tempted to bring his hands to cover his ears, to make them _stop_.

_Make it stop._

_Make everything stop._

_One foot in front of the other. Don't stop. Then you're just a sitting duck._

The rhythmic scrape of his cane against the gravel, swinging like a pendulum in an arc in front of him - the sound filling his ears, somehow constantly audible even amongst the roaring symphony of voices around him as students arrived back to school, and never, _ever_ letting him forget that he relied on it to do everything now. It was a beacon, a giant arrow declaring him weak.

_Different_.

_Vulnerable_.

It was only a matter of time before they realised that on their own, and when they did, this place would be no different to McKinley.

_His own, personal Hell._

Except this time, there was no red letterman jacket to signify the enemy.

The enemy could be _anyone_, and come from _anywhere_.

_Breathe, Kurt, breathe. Don't freak out now, you'll make him worry, and God - he scoffed internally, what God? - knows you're not worth that. Keep walking._

* * *

Burt could feel the fear radiating from his son's quaking body; it made him, not for the first time, want to hunt down the people - although he used that term loosely - who did this to his son, and tear them to pieces. The perpetrators were behind bars, but the damage was irreparable.

_They didn't have to suffer; not really. Not like Kurt._

The thought made Burt feel sick.

He didn't want to have to leave Kurt here; didn't want this to be the only viable means of keeping his son safe, the one last hope of making his boy smile again.

Guiding his son towards a bench, overlooking some gardens that Kurt would have waxed lyrical about, had he been able to see them, he lowered himself onto the seat. Before them, a grandiose building, ornate and austere.

"This place looks like Hogwarts, Kurt. It's huge!" he nudged his son's shoulder playfully, attempting lighthearted conversation, and fought back tears at the boy's violent flinch at the contact.

_No. Don't break down. Be strong._

_For Kurt._

"I wouldn't know, dad; I can't see it." the voice was soft, murmured, but filled with bitterness - not that Burt could blame him. "This isn't my "Hogwarts", dad; there won't be any magic spells here. Things aren't magically going to _change_, and get better, just because I'm _here_ instead of _there_. That's not how it works; I'll spend two years here, and I'll be an outcast here, just like I was there. I'll leave this place, and I'll still be _blind_, probably, and I'll still be _me_ - the gay kid that everyone hates. I know you want the best for me, but don't expect any miracles. There's no spell to change this."

Kurt's voice, once so melodic, expressive; the kind of voice that could make the most boring of topics fascinating, that exuded enthusiasm and passion and _life_.

_Muted. Resigned. Listless_.

"_Kurt_," he breathed the word like a prayer, wanting more than anything to wrap this broken boy in his arms, but that would trigger a panic attack, and Burt cursed that he couldn't even hold his _son_ because of what those _animals_ had done, "I _want_ you to be you again - don't ever say "_I'll still be me_" like it's a bad thing." he drank in the cool September air, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"Ask anyone in Lima - they'd disagree. And I can't say I blame them." the confession was murmured, breathed out into the wind that was caressing his son's now-gaunt cheeks and tainting them pink.

Knuckles turned white as they clasped the arm of the bench, the only thing keeping him there, and not doing something - _anything_ - to the bastards who put that pain into a voice which had once, so long ago that it felt nothing more than the last lingering relics of a dream, sounded so carefree, joyful, and full of life.

"Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, you listen to me right now," he tried to inject some semblance of conviction into his tone, never having been good with words but knowing that these could be some of the most important that had ever left his lips.

Hands clasped in front of him, discoloured and hardened from work in the shop.

When had it got to the point, where he'd become nervous to talk to his own son?

When had he become such a failure as a parent?

When had he let his wife - his beautiful wife, who'd have known exactly what to do, instead of floundering like Burt - down, so wholly and unforgivably?

* * *

He could feel the tension emanating from his father, almost palpable in the drawn-out silence that stretched between them. Burt had never been a man of words; rather than constant declarations of love, to the point where the words lost all true depth of meaning, he showed his feelings through action.

A bunch of daffodils - his mom's favourite - waiting on the kitchen table, after she'd called him at lunchtime to complain that _she was having the day from Hell._

A begrudging agreement to watch Wicked - _again_ - when he was sick and had to stay home from school.

A hand gripping his like a vice when he thought Kurt was sleeping, sobs rippling through the darkness in the hospital room as he cursed police officers who refused to just _do something_.

Simple actions, that meant a thousand times more to Kurt than gruff, empty words.

* * *

"After your mom left us," to this day, Burt skirted around the word "_died_", settling instead for synonyms instead of the one word - like a bullet to the heart in its finality - that never failed to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He saw his son's eyebrows raise a fraction at this, clearly intrigued, as Burt mentioning Elizabeth unprompted was a rarity, "everything just _stopped_. We'd known it was coming - she'd been sick for a long time - but I just couldn't wrap my head around her not being here. Not being right beside me. Not then, not when I needed her the most."

One hand moved to the pocket of his threadbare, discoloured jeans, fingers automatically seeking out the ring which he still kept on his person at all times. A thumb traced the smooth metal - unblemished, untainted, the circle eternal and unbroken, and he drew from it the strength to continue, stoically ignoring the burning in his eyes and the moisture that had started to blur his vision.

"I didn't function properly for a long time. I was surviving, but I wasn't living - I was a shell, I didn't see the point in anything because _she_ wasn't there any more. Then one day, you came home from school, and you were so excited," a breathy, watery chuckle escaped his lips, chapped from being dragged between his teeth too often as of late, as the memory played out in his mind, as clear to that day as though he were watching it on film, "because Mrs. Tate had given you a solo in the Christmas Concert, and even though Azimo and Finn said you sounded like a girl, you thought that mommy would really like to hear it up in Heaven."

His voice caught on the last word, and his eyes flickered skywards; after all that had happened, he wasn't sure if he believed - or even _wanted_ to believe - in a God who had inflicted unimaginable pain and suffering on someone who had done _nothing_ to deserve it, but the prospect of Elizabeth being somewhere better, ignited in him a flicker of hope, however faint, for something _more_.

"Your eyes lit up like it was the best news ever - you couldn't keep your feet still, they were swinging back and forward to some sort of beat that only you could hear, in those damn pink flashing sneakers you'd begged me to buy you the week before. And you were smiling - properly smiling, not like these past few years, when you've tried to convince me you're fine even when I saw you wince after every step you took."

A shudder to his left at the mention of his son's torment drew Burt's attention back to the boy next to him, silently berating himself for sending his mind back to _that_ place.

"That _light_, the joy in your voice at the thought of your mom being proud of you, changed something in me, kiddo - you brought me back to life. And I'm not saying it was easy, and I'm not saying it was all at once, and you know words aren't exactly my strong suit but this is the best way I can describe it."

A deep breath, no amount of oxygen seeming enough due to the boulder of emotion which appeared to be lodged in his oesophagus at that moment.

"It was like I'd been on a boat, when we were a family - on a cruise of some sorta beautiful island, the kind that your mom would have loved but I'd've found boring, 'cause with me I always had to be _doing_ something. But the three of us, we were on our boat, not a top-of-the-line, luxury thing, but strong and sturdy and solid and _perfect for us_, and we were making our way round these islands, and we were _happy_, you know?

And then we lost your mom and I - it was like I'd been tossed off the side of the boat, into the middle of the ocean, and there was lead tying down my arms and legs and no matter how much I _knew_ I had to try and swim back there, for _you_, and to make Lizzie proud, I couldn't, so I just let myself sink deeper. It was muted, and the water cushioned everything - nothing could hit me as hard down there. It was like I was numb, like the dentist had given my body, my mind, my _whole world_, a shot.

And once I was down there, it was easier just to _stay_ there - a coward's way out, looking back. But it was like I'd look up, from the bottom of this ocean, and it was so _dark_, but I'd look up and I'd see the surface, and it'd just seem so far away, so _unreachable_. Staying down there - it was safer. In the dark, it was safe, secure. I didn't know what would be waiting for me if I went back up to the surface.

That day, when you came running into the kitchen - trekked a whole lotta mud in there too, you were so excited you'd forgotten to take your sneakers off - it was like you gave me a flashlight; one of those underwater ones they give scuba divers. It wasn't that strong, not at first - but it let me see that there was still life out there. There were fish under the water, even down that deep, and they were still living, and loving, and _being_. And I could just watch them, and know that there was _something_ still out there.

And bit by bit the flashlight got stronger - lasted longer each time - and the lead on my arms got lighter. And there were still days when I'd sink again, when it seemed easier just to hide in the darkness, but you pulled me up. Bit by bit. You were eight years old, and you _saved_ me. You taught me to swim again, and together we built a raft, and made a home there."

* * *

He wasn't even sure that his dad was talking to him, anymore - his voice drove on, like waves against a cliff, ebbing away the edges of his rising panic, but failing to dispel it completely. His sightless eyes trained on his lap, the cane propped by his side, but still within reach.

He wanted to reach out and smooth his father's hand in his own, the sound of the choked, strained voice tugging the corners of his lips downwards, but he couldn't. He couldn't touch.

_Not anymore._

Not since _before_.

So he did what he could; he listened.

* * *

"The raft wasn't perfect; there were so many holes in the damn thing that sometimes I thought it'd be easier just to leave it entirely - to jump off and sink again - but I knew I couldn't. Because you couldn't patch those holes up all by yourself, and you _needed_ me to fight for you.

"So when you came home crying the week before the Christmas Concert, and you told me the boys in your class had shoved you, and laughed at you for having a girly voice, I did the only thing I knew how to do at that point: I _fought_ for you. Went and gave Mrs. Tate three different kinds of Hell for letting _my_ boy be treated like that, in a place where he was meant to be safe. Told her that no boy of mine would be brought up that way, cut down by kids who had no concept of the damage words could do.

"I don't know when I _stopped_ fighting for you. You got to middle school and you - you shut me out, Kurt. I figured that maybe it was time to let you try and fight for yourself, be the man I brought you up to be. And I thought you knew I'd always be there to fight for you, if you needed me to.

"_You_ still fought for _me_, the whole time in the hospital, and you were just a _kid_ - you fought against me with the whole diet thing afterwards, because you knew it was for my own good. _You_ still fought for _me_, and I - I just -"

The muted scraping sound of skin against rough stubble, and Kurt knew his dad was rubbing his hands over his face, the way he did whenever he became frustrated with himself, or was struggling to keep a handle on his emotions.

"I didn't fight for you. I let you down, bud. And I can't - I won't - forgive myself for that." the words muffled, spoken into his palms which still rested over his face, but heard nonetheless.

"Dad, I -" Burt started at the sound, his son's presence clearly having momentarily slipped his mind.

"No, Kurt, let me finish," a deep, shuddering breath, synchronised between the two men who had worn a facade of bravery for so long, "I brought you up to _fight_ - to fight for what you believe in, for what's _right_, for yourself and for others who can't do it for themselves. To fight against every cruel twist of fate that life's thrown at you. I wasn't perfect - far from it - I failed you, time and time again, and words can't explain how _sorry_ I am. But I've brought you up the best I can. Somehow, I've raised a compassionate, strong, brave young man who I'm _proud_ to call my son.

"The boy I raised is still there; he needs to _fight_ right now. And it's not going to be quick, and it's not going to be easy, and right now it may seem easier to sink; to just _survive_, and not really _live_ - to float along with the tides for the rest of your life, instead of swimming against the current. But _fight_ - for me, for your mom, for yourself, for whatever makes you want to get back to the surface.

"I can't lose you too, Kurt, and I can feel you slipping away from me. It nearly killed me to put your mom in the ground. What they did could have killed you - it almost did. But you fought back. Now you have to show me, show _them_, show the whole world, _why_. You're a Hummel, and _nobody_ pushes us around.

"I'm not promising miracles. But _try_, bud. That's all I'm asking."

* * *

_Silence_.

Stretching out like a blanket of snow between them - a blank canvas of unchartered territory, waiting to be encroached upon, marked with the directions of whoever ambles across it.

A nod; almost imperceptible, but there.

Definitely _there_.

As the two men climbed to their feet, Kurt felt the panic begin to clammer at the peripheries of his conscience once more, and fumbled for his cane, fighting valiantly to slow his heart rate.

This was going to be _anything_ but easy.

This was no Hogwarts.

But he'd _try_.

* * *

**_A/N 2 - I'm going to blame Burt's speech on the song I was listening to while I wrote this; I'm not going to mention what song because I've decided it's going to be involved in the story later, but the story basically has the same message as everything Burt's trying to say. _**

**_Next chapter; Klaine meet! I promise!_**


	4. Introduction

_**Hi! I have an update for you all :) we have Klaine meeting here, and Kurt meeting Dan as well, and then the action really starts next chapter :)**_

_**Just want to say thank you to everyone who's followed this, favourited it, read it and reviewed it - some of you have even taken the time to talk to me through PMs and it honestly makes my day :)**_

_**Enjoy! And tell me what you think :)**_

* * *

As the two men stepped inside, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

The uproarious pandemonium of outside, of voices intermingling and overlapping and laughing and just _being_ in a way that had made Kurt's head spin, suddenly silenced, as though someone had pressed mute on a movie.

Silence was never a good thing: experience had taught him that much.

When there was sound, at least he could hear what was going on, hear the enemy and deduce a great deal about his surroundings from the words of others.

In silence, it was as though someone had severed the rope keeping him anchored to the seabed, and he was floating in abyss.

In oblivion.

_Keep walking. Breathe. You've got this far, what these people will do can't be any worse._

_Hopefully._

* * *

"But what do we even _do_ when we meet him, Blaine? I mean, do we try and shake his hand, or will that be awkward because he won't _see_ our hand so he won't know we're trying to shake it, or will he think we're being really rude if we _don't_ shake his hand, or -"

"When you meet who?" Dan's rambling was effectively silenced by the appearance of Wes, ever the early riser, voice muffled by a combination of the last relics of sleep and the slice of toast protruding from his lips. Two pairs of eyes flickered to the doorway, from their position on the leather sofas where they had seated themselves after deeming it too early to make the walk to the Principal's office.

"New kid. He's arriving today and Dan and I have been asked to show him around a little, make sure he settles in okay." came Blaine's reply. Wes nodded in acknowledgement as he swallowed the last of his breakfast, lips quirking slightly in satisfaction at the sight before him.

"I see. Try and find out if he sings, we need someone to replace Julien now that he's living in New York. And remember who you've got to live up to in the mentor stakes, boys."

Receiving a roll of a pair of hazel eyes at the last comment, Wes exited the room, resolving to make a start on his Calculus homework before the usual chaos of Sundays at Dalton ensued.

_If only this new kid knew what he was letting himself in for._

* * *

They were walking down a corridor; or, at least, Kurt _assumed_ they were, judging by the fact that they'd been headed in the same direction for a rather long time, and his cane had collided with what he deduced to be lockers as it swung out to his right, resonating against the metal with a dull _thud_ that only served to remind Kurt of _them_ and _there_ and _then_ and _stop thinking Kurt stop thinking._

Suddenly they weren't walking anymore. The voice next to him, still slightly choked from their earlier discussion, soft by his side, "Relax, Kurt. I got you.".

Footsteps - expensive shoes on hardwood floor, squeaking with each brisk step to alert Kurt to the approach of someone.

_Danger_, his mind supplied, but he pushed it away, fighting the first whispers of panic with everything he had because he'd _promised_ his dad and his dad was here and his dad would keep him safe.

And then a voice; not one he recognised. Deep and rich, one that spoke of wisdom that only age could bring, and yet simultaneously a joy, a youth-like quality that had somehow been retained - a combination that Kurt would have assumed to be impossible, had he not heard it himself.

"Mr. Hummel, Kurt, it's a pleasure. Come in," a hand gripping his own, weathered by time and age, but strong and assured in its shake, and Kurt involuntarily tensed and recoiled because this man was _touching_ him and touching him just reminded him of _him and them and hands where he didn't want them and -_

_Breathe. Inhale, exhale. You're safe, you're safe, you're safe._

He'd lie to himself if it meant he didn't have to worry his dad any longer.

* * *

As a senior, and Head Councillor of the Warblers, Wesley Montgomery was afforded certain privileges, one of which was a room overlooking Dalton's expansive gardens. Whilst having a room slightly bigger than the other boys was essentially a double-edged sword, resulting in him being the de facto choice of location for any and all Warbler movie nights, he enjoyed the opportunity that the large bay window by his desk granted him, to just sit and _watch_ people, on days when his mind strayed from simultaneous equations and differentiation.

Today was one such day, as Blaine Anderson and Daniel Jenkerson strolled into view, the shorter boy taking two steps to Dan's one and gesticulating wildly with his hands, passion exuding from the boy to the point where it was glaringly obvious, even at this distance.

Watching the boys filled Wes with pride - not for his own role in the matter, which he conceded had been present, but maintained was largely insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but for the boys themselves.

Gone were the boys who'd walk, head down, eyes trained steadfastly upon the floor as though their shoes may disappear if they were to lift their gaze for even a second.

Gone were the flinches at contact, at loud noises, the refusal to speak because any words may be met with scorn and mockery.

Gone was the fear in their eyes and the tension in their shoulders when surrounded by strangers.

They both had scars, remnants of their past which would fade with time, but never disappear completely; Wes wasn't naive enough to believe them both entirely healed. The eyes of both held a wisdom, an empathy, an understanding, borne from seeing far too much, far too young.

But they had laughter in their eyes, and smiles on their faces, and, as they shoved each other boisterously and chattered incessantly, greeting acquaintances, classmates and friends as they walked to Mr. Jarvis' office, looked for all the world two completely normal boys.

Which is what they were.

They were _happy_.

They were _safe_.

They were going to be for this new kid (who Wes _really_ needed to recruit for the Warblers if possible) what himself and David had tried to be for them.

As he watched the boys he looked upon as brothers disappear from his sight, Wes' face was adorned with the sort of grin, that David, if he were to walk in at that moment, would declare "_made him looked doped."_.

Wes didn't care.

They weren't two broken boys anymore, who looked like they may shatter if you breathed on them, who looked ready to bolt in any given situation.

They were Blaine Anderson and David Jenkerson.

And Wesley Montgomery was proud as _Hell_ of that.

* * *

His new Principal, whose name he was certain began with a J, although he couldn't recall the name itself, certainly talked a lot.

For over thirty minutes now he had droned on, about _schedules_ and _subjects_ and _dormitories_ and Warbler's - his father had nudged him conspiratorially at the mention of Dalton's show choir, but a sharp shake of the head from the younger boy had deterred his father.

He _couldn't_ stand out; he couldn't sing. Not here - here, he had to try and be safe, to protect himself, the way he'd failed to at McKinley.

Eventually he'd tuned out the droning ramblings of the older man, assured that any information that he was actually expected to retain would be repeated to him later on, and turned his face in the direction of what could only be a window. _The incident_, as his father had taken to calling it (personally, Kurt preferred to avoid mentioning it all together, if at all possible) had left him with only perceptions of light and darkness in his vision. He was able to see light, although not its intensity, and the direction from which it was emitted. For this, as he turned his face, allowing the sun to warm his cheeks as it beamed through the glass, Kurt supposed he should be grateful.

But that was difficult, when he factored in every other aspect of his situation.

A hand, gentle and cautious upon his arm, brought him back to the conversation at hand, having allowed his thoughts to roam freely - well, relatively freely, but not _there_, never there - for Goodness-only-knows how long.

"We've been informed about your situation, Kurt, and I just want to assure you that you'll be safe here," Kurt resisted his eyes to scoff at this comment; he wasn't safe anywhere, not anymore, not from his own mind and not from _them, "_It's at your discretion which of the boys you choose to inform about your circumstances, but many have found their classmates to be an invaluable support system."

Instantaneously, he resolved his internal quandary; _nobody could know. _He wasn't sure he could stomach the judgement, the disgust, the _pity_.

This was his secret, and so it would remain.

"We have two Junior boys who are going to come and show you to your room, Kurt; Mr. Anderson and Mr. Jenkerson. They are exemplary students here, and will ensure that you're well taken-care of."

A sharp intake of breath, hands balled into fists. A nod, indicating his approval of this plan, because really, what other choice did he have?

It was time to meet his new tormentors.

* * *

Blaine was nervous; that much was glaringly obvious, as Dan's eyes lingered on his friend. Hands clasped together in front of him, fingers knotted together impossibly as his shoes squeaked rhythmically against the hardwood floor outside Mr. Jarvis' office, Blaine looked like an elastic band, when you stretched it back between two fingers; taut, rigid, and ready to surge forward at the earliest opportunity.

That wasn't to say that Dan wasn't nervous himself; he was just far more adept at concealing his emotions than his curly-haired counterpart. With Blaine, every emotion, feeling and inclination was conveyed through facial expressions and body language, no matter how valiantly Blaine attempted to mask them.

Daniel Jenkerson was a blank canvas; a virtuoso of the poker-face, no matter what was in his head, a skill that had been tirelessly honed over the years and which still proved invaluable.

"Would you _stop_ already, you're so jittery that you're making _me_ nervous," a gentle hand on a tense shoulder caused the restless bouncing to cease, although unease was still clear in Blaine's posture.

"Sorry, it's just - when I came here, when we _both_ came here, things were pretty messed up for us. And Wes, and David, and _all_ the guys - they helped us. They _saved_ me, and continue to save me, and there's a boy in there who's probably hurting every bit as much as we were, and I _need_ to help him, like David and Wes helped me. I _need_ to, but I don't know if I can _do_ that, and I just -" deftly grabbing his friend by the shoulders and spinning him to face him - it was times like this when Dan was exceedingly grateful to have a considerable height advantage over most people he knew - green eyes, strong and assured, met wavering hazel.

"Hey, _stop_ that. It's going to be fine - it won't be easy, and we can't go in there expecting miracles. But it'll be _fine_; we're going to be there for this kid, like the guys were there for us. And we'll help, because, as much as both of us wish we didn't, we _get_ it. We know pain, we know suffering; we know it like the backs of our damn hands. So we _can_ help him, and we _will_ help him. And it will be fine - Jarvis wouldn't have come to us if he didn't trust us, he'd have asked Wes and David again. But freaking out? That's not going to help him right now. If he is anything like us, he'll be doing enough of that for the three of us. So stop. And breathe. And calm down."

A deep, shuddering breath, and a murmured but earnest thanks, and the waiting boys were interrupted by the creaking of the door, turning to face an expectant Principal observing them.

"Boys, come in. I'd like for you to meet Mr. Hummel, and his son, Kurt." the students, dressed in their uniforms despite the weekend, as had been requested in order to make the best possible impression upon the visitors, were ushered into the room which wasn't truly large enough to fit them all.

* * *

Two pairs of shoes entered, footfalls muted against the soft carpet that Kurt could feel beneath his feet, and a door closed with a _click_ behind them. The silence, whilst not in reality lasting anything beyond a few meagre seconds, felt like eternity.

_Breathe. Sit up. Don't freak out; don't let them see you're weak. They'll just target you quicker that way._

* * *

The first thing Blaine's eyes fell on was a man; balding and dressed head-to-toe in flannel, and the furthest thing possible from Blaine's own parents - and the majority of Dalton parents - that Blaine almost had to bite back a laugh. The sound withered in his throat, however, with one look in the man's eyes.

He genuinely appeared to be regarding the two students as though he could see into the depths of their souls, and from the way in which his eyes were narrowed slightly as his gaze roamed the pair, he didn't like what he saw.

Both boys could only hope that Mr. Jarvis would deign to interject, should Mr. Hummel elect to try and eat two of his students alive; at present, the menacing flannel-clad man looked very much like that was _precisely_ what he wished to do.

* * *

He didn't mean to intimidate the boys; honestly, that hadn't been his intention. But ever since _that_ night, his instinct to protect Kurt had been kicked into overdrive, and, as such, he felt the need to establish whether these rich prep-school kids were a threat to his son.

The shorter one, whose hair looked like it was painted to his skull, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his smile - which Burt assumed was designed to appear welcoming - transcending into something more resemblant of a grimace. The taller boy, with the piercing green eyes and the shock of blond hair that appeared to protrude from every possible angle atop his head, held Burt's gaze, his smile unfaltering even as Burt saw his hands begin to fidget by his sides.

He'd give it to the taller boy; he had guts.

* * *

At length, a hand was extended - Dan was thankful for small mercies, at this point - and his own hand was enveloped in the grip of the older man; coarse and calloused, but strong and firm. It reminded him of his own father.

"Dan Jenkerson, sir. I'll be Kurt's roommate." a raised, thinning eyebrow, causing the crinkles in his forehead to deepen, then a nod of the head as his arm was released, and Blaine's was seized in turn.

"It's good to meet you sir; Blaine Anderson." the waver in the shorter boy's voice, screaming of uncertainty and wariness, would have been imperceptible to most.

But not to Dan.

Because Dan _knew_ Blaine; not like someone in Blaine's Spanish class could say they knew Blaine, from a few superficial conversations. Dan knew what made Blaine tick, and what made Blaine scared, and what set Blaine back to square one again. He knew what made the crinkles by his eyes appear when he smiled properly, and what candy to buy when Blaine was feeling down and needed a movie night.

And Blaine knew those things about Dan.

Because Dan _knew_ Blaine; and Blaine knew Dan.

And Dan knew that this man absolutely _terrified_ his friend.

* * *

When you can't see, you learn to establish a lot from a voice. There are no social queues to be gleaned from facial expressions, or from body language, or from something as superficial as appearances. A voice, often, was all you had to go on.

So when Kurt heard these boys speak for the first time, he was able to ascertain quite a lot.

The first voice, higher than would be considered average for a man, although not at high as Kurt's own, with a slight rasping edge to it, though not to the extent where it made it unpleasant to listen to, emenated confidence and bravado. Not the empty-headed cockiness of meathead high school jocks, but a calm, collected self-assuredness that spoke of a young man who had seen a great deal. His voice lilted softly as he introduced himself to his father, a smile evident in his tone as Kurt attempted to place the traces of a foreign accent disguised within the man's words. His voice was the kind which, Kurt could imagine, would sound most at home when laughing or joking.

_Probably at him._

The second voice; rich and smooth like honey, though with a certain edge to it which made Kurt suspect that perhaps this boy had been intimidated by his father - he wouldn't be the first to shrink back when faced with Burt Hummel's scrutiny. He was attempting, Kurt knew, to inject the same form of self-confidence into his greeting that his friend had succeeded so effortlessly in projecting mere seconds prior; to most, it would appear as though he'd carried it off.

Kurt knew better.

He knew because he'd done it himself; for so long that he can't even remember when his confidence stopped being real and started being an act, a desperate attempt to get them to back off even slightly. He knew what uncertainty sounded like; he knew doubt, and fake, when he heard it.

He heard it in his own voice every day; so he knew better.

The voice was melodic and soft, although not the sort of softness that spoke of a shy temperament; merely mild-mannered and polite, a voice which projected trustworthiness and compassion and _honesty_ within the span of a few words; Kurt wasn't entirely sure how it did that.

_But he wouldn't fall for it; not this time._

_He wouldn't let himself be victimised again._

But in his own head, he could admire the voice; that, he could do.

* * *

That had to have been the most intimidating introduction to which Blaine had ever been subjected, and it had come at the hands of the New Kid's father; years of greeting his father's staunchly homophobic business associates had long since ceased to phase him, but this man had instantly put him on edge.

"And this is Kurt," the edge to the man's tone was not lost on either boy, along with the dark purple smudges beneath the eyes of the admittedly intimidating father - he was clearly exhausted in every sense of the word, and Blaine began to suspect that his scrutiny had been an attempt - needless though it was - of protecting his son. Both pivoted to face the chair, in which the only occupant of the room who had yet to speak was sat.

The quivering hands, clenched into pale fists upon the boy's lap, drew Blaine's eyes like a beacon, noting as they settled there the rather-too-rapid rise and fall of the new student's almost-too-prominent ribs. His head was bowed as though in submission, chestnut hair falling into his eyes, which were shielded from view by a pair of sunglasses.

The boy looked absolutely _terrified_.

Blaine's heart constricted at the sight; he felt as though there was a fist, closing itself around his valves that refused to cease until he wrapped the boy - to whom he hadn't even spoken yet - into his arms and just made him _okay_ again.

At length, the concealed face rose, presenting itself in the direction of the two observing boys; eyes unseeing behind the tinted frames.

Blaine's breath caught.

Skin so pale it was almost translucent, looking so soft to the touch that Blaine was met with a sudden and inexplicable urge to just _caress_ and _stroke_ and _touch_ and _feel_ and _heal_.

But he couldn't.

Because of the lips pressed into a thin line, the only means, Blaine suspected, of barring a sob or a whimper of fear from an escape past the slightly chapped lips.

Because of the shoulders, so tense that they almost reached the boy's ears, and how they shook lightly with each breath despite his clear efforts to conceal his fears.

Because of the feet, planted firmly on the ground, as though he was ready to bolt at a moment's notice.

Because of a million things, which all amounted to the fact that this was _wrong_ and _inappropriate_ and the last thing this boy needs right now.

He would do what he could; he would be, for this boy, what Wes and David, and Dan, and Nick and Jeff, had been for him.

He would do _everything_ he could to save this boy.

Because right now, he looked like he was drowning.

A copper hand reached out tentatively to grasp its milky-white counterpart from its place on Kurt's lap.

"Hi, I'm Blaine, and this is Dan. It's great to meet you,"

The hand tensed, rigid and stiff and full of fear, recoiling as though he'd just been scalded unexpectedly, and the quivering increased tenfold.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid Blaine._

But the hand.

It had been every bit as soft as he had imagined.

It couldn't hurt to just _think_ it, right?

"Kurt Hummel," the voice, cracking at the end from disuse, soft and delicate, but high and melodic and rich, like a lilting melody played on the upper register of a grande piano.

It was beautiful.

Blaine knew he could spend forever listening to that voice.

* * *

Dan knew Blaine; after all that the pair had experienced together, both good and bad, he liked to think he had a unique insight into the thought processes of his friend.

So, as he saw his friends face contort into a frown at the sight of the boy, hazel eyes becoming slightly diluted with tears and eyebrows drawn together as though someone had pulled a stitch too tight across them, he knew _exactly_ what his friend was thinking.

Even if Blaine was denying it to himself.

* * *

**_A/N 2 - please let me know what you think guys :) it may sound stupid but reviews honestly make my day, and give me so much more motivation to write!_**

**_Hope you're all well, lovely people :) _**


	5. Wary

**_A/N - Hi guys..._**

**_So I know it's been about a month since I updated this; I considered abandoning it but couldn't bring myself to, and I can promise you that it will NOT be abandoned, and that from here on in you'll be getting updates a lot more frequently. Sorry I haven't updated - life and school got really hectic for a while, but things are steadying a bit more now. I'm going to have another chapter for you sometime this weekend._**

**_Warning for anxiety and violence in this chapter - only right at the end, the last section._**

**_I don't own it :(_**

* * *

Dan could not help but be filled with empathy for the young boy who walked, stiff and tense, alongside himself and Blaine. The almost-tangible fear emanating from the young man was too familiar, reminding him too much of himself, for any attempt at distancing himself from the situation to be even remotely effective. Even in passing, the coiled muscles, prepared to bolt at the slightest indication of danger, coupled with the already-too-pale hand's steadfast grip upon the cane in front of him, turning bony knuckles an almost translucent white in the choking grasp, meant that it was not difficult to decipher that Kurt was _terrified_.

As they escorted their new friend around the school, having been informed by Jarvis that Kurt - being an emergency transfer - hadn't had the opportunity to visit, Dan attempted to draw the boy, who, upon close observation, was quivering almost imperceptibly in the oversized sweater which appeared almost to drown his frail frame, into some form of conversation. The easy-going, laid-back nature of the blond Warbler resulted, in the majority of cases, in him making friends rather easily; pride danced at the edges of his mind as he considered this, marvelling at the stark contrast with the fearful withdrawn boy who had enrolled at Dalton the year previously.

David, to whom Dan owed a considerable amount of his newly-rediscovered self-assuredness, had lamented jokingly on occasion that he wished for the shy, quiet Dan to come back, just to give his eardrums a moments' reprieve.

Dan, as Wes remarked during many-a-Warbler rehearsal, in which the Junior had succeeded in steering proceedings significantly away from matters at hand, could make friends with a brick wall, should it strike his fancy.

Such was not the cases with Kurt.

Courteous enquiries, turned over time and time again in his mind so as to ensure that they weren't too probing, merely curious and polite, were met with silence.

A minute stiffening of the already-taut muscles in response to an enquiry as to his favourite classes.

A stiff shrug - and neither boy missed the resulting wince, as the movement clearly aggravated some still-healing injuries - when asked about hobbies and pastimes.

A muffled noise of indifference as Dan stated - a bounce in his stride as they headed towards the common room - how excited he was to share a room with Kurt.

Whatever had happened to this boy, had clearly broken him beyond measure.

A surge of protectiveness washed over Dan, as he strolled a half-metre behind Kurt and Blaine along a narrow pathway.

_He would do better this time_.

* * *

"Hey, Aiden! Fancy going to grab something to eat? We're all starved." the Freshman's eyes snapped upwards in the direction of the sound, the fear within them that had been so potent just days previously diluted a fraction, although still evident. He wasn't sure why a group of boys were making the effort to get to know him - in his mind, they had no reason to want to - but it felt overwhelmingly nice just to be able to _fit_ for once.

He wouldn't question it; however short-lived such friendships would prove to be, he would bask in every moment of them while he was still able.

He was painfully aware of the fact that this wouldn't last - that boy had been proof of it, if any further proof had been required.

When they found out, things would change.

But for now, he would allow himself to make the most of what he had.

A smile stretched across his lips, freckled cheeks dimpling slightly as a hand ran through the shock of ginger hair.

"Sure, guys, sounds great."

* * *

Blaine's eyes were glued irrevocably to the brunet walking alongside him; from the slightly tattered cuffs of his sweater, pulled half-way over quivering hands so that only red, bitten finger nails protruded into the late-summer sunlight, to the chestnut hair, unstyled and falling at times against the pale forehead causing Blaine to have to physically restrain himself from brushing the tendrils of hair aside.

But restrain himself he did; the boy's terror hadn't abated any during their 45 minute tour of the school, during which Blaine had made every effort to describe the areas in detail, hoping to provide Kurt with some sort of mental map of the admittedly daunting establishment. Dan had, when he deemed necessary, interjected, peppering Blaine's descriptive monologue with anecdotes of students, teachers and traditions that prevailed here; when regaled with the tale of ambushing the staff with water balloons at the end of last year, as part of "Senior Muck Up Day", Kurt's lips had quirked momentarily into a thin, wavering smile, so fleeting that, had Blaine not been closely regarding the boy at that moment, he may have deemed it to be a figment of his imagination.

As they stepped into Bidwell House, the last stop of their tour, and prepared to lead Kurt to his room - and Blaine would not deny that he was slightly apprehensive at the prospect of leaving this clearly fragile boy with his well-intentioned but excitable best friend - he attempted to relegate the tightening coil of jealousy that formed in his gut, at the fact that _he_ hadn't been the one to put that smile there, to the back of his mind.

Because Kurt had smiled, and, should be have his way, he would have all the time in the world to cause that smile to grace his face again. Kurt had smiled; and that was enough.

* * *

"Jeffery Sterling, give me back my phone right _now_, or I'll tell your mother, and you know I'm already her favourite!" Nick tried in vain to wrestle his phone from the clutches of his best friend, who had determined stealing it to be the best course of action in order to glean information on Nick's new girlfriend, but to no avail.

"Nope - I'm your best friend and _you_ wouldn't tell me about Lana, so I had to take matters into my own hands," Jeff retorted, deftly dodging reaching hands as he sparred with his closest friend, "If you'd just told me in the first place, we wouldn't be in this mess, but as it is, I think I'm going to send your girlfriend a text, if that's alright by you."

With a wink and a smirk, clearly having deemed it unnecessary to wait for a reply, Jeff took off down the hallway, Nick hot on his heels and hollering indignantly behind him. Nobody batted an eyelid as shrieks of laughter resonated down the halls of Bidwell House; this was Nick and Jeff, and this was Dalton - their behaviour was far from unusual.

* * *

They hadn't beaten him up yet; Kurt had yet to establish _why_, deducing eventually that a prep school education had introduced to these boys the concept of subtlety, and they were attempting to lure him into some form of misguided trust before turning on him.

He knew this wouldn't last.

Their questions had been courteous, a genuine curiosity colouring the voices either side of him, breaking the silence that had descended over the trio, accompanied only by the metronome of footfalls against gravel, and fragments of other conversations, carried their way by the wind.

The boy to his left - Dan, his new roommate - had regaled him with tales of life at Dalton, of the pranks and the customs and traditions that appeared to be interspersed into everyday life here; the fondness that saturated every syllable leaving his mouth caused Kurt's lips to stretch almost imperceptibly into a barely-there trace of a smile; the clear passion and enthusiasm exuding from the boy made it clear that he had found home, found _family_ - for he had referred to his friends here as such on more than one occasion since beginning their tour - here.

Kurt only wished that the same could be the case for him.

Blaine, whose footsteps fell two to Dan's one, alerting Kurt to a clear height difference between the two, remained on his right, interspersing Dan's monologue of Dalton Chaos with his own anecdotes, and endeavouring whenever possible to steer the discussion back to Kurt himself. Kurt had rebutted his attempts at every turn, answering as concisely as possible, or feigning having not heard altogether, and was grateful for the politeness that seemed so engrained within the mentalities of the two teenagers that they accepted his silence without question.

His silence, although largely owing to fear, and distrust in the boys who were guiding him, was borne, at least in part, from necessity; at that moment, Kurt just needed to focus. To think. To absorb.

To remember.

Even before that night, and all that had happened because of that night, and _no Kurt stop thinking about it, stop, just breathe,_ his memory had been honed; fine-tuned over the years from a need to constantly memorise new routes, new shortcuts and hallways and hideouts which would, even by a minuscule fraction, decrease his chances of being found by them.

It had never worked.

He'd been hunted; tracked and preyed upon, toyed with like a mouse caught between the cumbersome paws of a tiger, the teeth always poised and visible, just _there_, allowing the knowledge to seep through his mind that, should they decide to use them, he would be defenceless. It had caused him to revert to almost animalistic instincts; he did what he could to get through the day. To survive.

So now he had to remember; remember routes and hallways and shortcuts as the boys procured his schedule and escorted him to each of his classrooms, an endless series of directions until his mind was nothing but an indecipherable maze of _left right right straight ahead and it's the third door on the left_ interspersed with fear and memories. Remember as many names as he was being told, casually dropped into conversations with the traces of a fond smile in the voice of either boy, faceless entities who would become his tormentors here. Remember schedules and routines, absorbing Blaine's comments on which teachers were lenient with prep, and Dan's tales of traditions and customs and events which seemed so numerous that it became a wonder to Kurt that a week went by without some form of special event.

He had to remember; but not remember that. Never remember _that_.

He knew he had to watch himself; he could already sense himself relaxing, feeling minutely more at ease in the presence of the two boys - not to a degree which would be externally noticeable, but enough to alert him to the fact that he needed to ensure that his carefully constructed barriers remained intact.

He'd promised his dad he'd try; he couldn't let them see weakness.

He couldn't let it happen again.

* * *

Jeff's chest strained with exertion, footsteps faltering slightly as he skidded around a corner, all-too-aware of the approach of his best friend behind him. Running track competitively gave him the slight edge on Nick in terms of pace, but he knew the lost ground between them could easily be made up.

Still, he was unable to resist a cocky smirk as his eyes, glinting with mischief and mirth, darted momentarily over his shoulder, the procured phone still grasped steadfastly in his left hand.

"Run, run, as fast as you can; you won't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!"

A choked laugh, strangled in part due to the breathlessness that Jeff could identify within his friend's tone, was the only response to the child-like taunt, as he finally reached his goal, fumbling blindly for the key which would grant him access to his dorm, and hearing Nick now only a few paces behind him as he leant on the cool mahogany.

A click, a squeal, and a thud, and he was safe; key entered, door closed behind him as he sunk down against the beige walls, attempting to catch his breath. He'd known Nick had forgotten his key that morning, the smaller boy having complained to him about it at breakfast between heaving spoonfuls of cereal and plans to play soccer out back later, so he was safe here from the wrath of a boy who he felt so lucky to have in his life.

The spasm of pain in his side from the impromptu exertion having subsided a little, the blond's lips quirked minutely in anticipation as footfalls, muted by plush carpet, came to a halt outside his door, a breathy chuckle and a muttered curse falling from the lips on the other side, a tone which Jeff would recognise anywhere, before the hammering on the door, and entreaties of "_Jeff, come on, open up_" caught between poorly-disguised chuckles resonated through the halls.

What a way to start a Sunday.

* * *

Precisely 52 steps from the room that Blaine had declared as the common room, launching immediately into tales of Warbler's and choirs and sectionals and "_Do you sing, Kurt?"_ - met with a vigorous shake of the head - as Dan explained that this is where most of Bidwell House hang out, after two right turns and a left, and a transition from hardwood floors, impeccably polished judging by the incessant, rhythmic squeaks of three pairs of shoes, onto plush carpet which muted their footfalls, and Dan's voice cut through the silence which had once again descended upon the group.

"So this is our hall; our room's the second on the left, over here," at this point the sharp tap of a fist on wood alerted Kurt to a door, wooden and smooth and cool to the touch, on his left, "and Blaine and David - who you'll meet later - are next door. Then you've got Wes opposite - he has his own room - and Nick and Jeff down on the end."

_Silence_. A stiff nod, more names to remember, possible dangers. More to absorb. The muffled rustling of fabric, barely heard beneath the soft jangling of metal-on-metal as, Kurt deduced, the boy searched in a pocket for his key.

Kurt, thoughts filled with information and names and routes and so _much_ to remember, was only distantly aware of a voice, further down the hall, whiny and pleading, intermingled with rueful laughter.

A thud on a wall, hollow and resonating, as it was struck with more force than should have been necessary, shook him from his thoughts, back tensing and muscles coiling in a reflex which was as natural to him as breathing by now, before:

"Jeffery Sterling, I swear to God I'm going to kill you!"

Footsteps, sounding down the hallway towards him, two pairs, the muffled footfalls of leather soles on carpet seeming impossibly amplified in his ears, and Kurt couldn't move.

Couldn't _breathe_.

It felt like a corset was being wrapped around his chest, strings taken out of his hands and pulled tighter and tighter with every second, air being forced from his lungs and cement replacing it, solid and blocking any possible access for oxygen.

Breaths coming in short, sharp shots, like bullets from a gun with a jammed trigger, incessant and uncontrollable and never-ending.

He couldn't move. Every thing in him, every cell and bone and fibre within his body was screaming at him to run, to get out, to get away, but instead his legs gave way from under him, body sliding down along a cool surface, legs pulled against his chest in an attempt to shield his ribs from the blows he was sure were to follow.

Panic surrounded him, a swirling tornado or horror and fragmented memories, as he felt himself sink to the floor, back pressed against the cool plaster of the hallway, arms tightly encasing his legs as though attempting to physically hold himself together.

And all he could see was _them_.

* * *

_"You tell anyone, fag, and I'm going to kill you."_

Blows reining down on him, no idea of how many hands, until it became impossible to distinguish one strike from the next, trapped in a haze of pain and terror.

"_I'm going to give you what you deserve, homo; just remember, before you go crying to mommy, that this is entirely your fault."_

Blood pooling on the tarmac; mingled with the rain which came down in sheets around them, as though trying to purify, to cleanse, to wash away, the horrors of that evening.

"_Don't fight back, fag - you asked for this."_

Copper and iron flood his mouth; the taste of his blood seeping into his gums and slipping down his throat, now hoarse and mute from fruitless please for relief.

"_You are nothing, Hummel. You hear me? Nothing."_

Their faces; contorted in anger and hatred and exertion, veiled partly by darkness and blurred by moisture in his eyes, but not enough - never enough to make him forget.

Their bodies, towering over his limp form sprawled against the dumpster, hulking and menacing, but frozen still. Watching. Waiting.

Their voices, the voices that haunted his every waking thought, and plagued his nightmares.

In the blind whirlwind of panic, only a handful of basic concepts made any sort of sense in his mind.

_Fear. Pain. Hatred._

_Darkness._


End file.
